Going Postal

One of C’s favorite places to go is the post office. Years ago, we lived in a town where people took a number instead of waiting in line. C would go from person to person, asking them what number they were, checking the electronic counter on the wall, and then telling them how many numbers they had to wait. It was a town with many senior citizens, and he charmed them all as we waited in our very busy post office. Inevitably, people would ask how old he was, and then they’d ask me if I held flash cards in front of him all day. I rarely explained.

I hadn’t taken him to the post office in our new town until today. It’s kind of boring; no numbers to look at, just a long line full of cranky people. Yet he still managed to work his magic. He talked to one man about “passing first grade” and moving on to second. At one point, he whispered to me, “Those three ladies behind us are pretty ladies.” They all giggled with delight.

The highlight, however, is the post office boxes, because they have numbers and go in order. It’s a thrill to say the least, and he spent many minutes running back and forth looking for numbers, asking people their box number, and proceeding to find it for them “in case they couldn’t, Mommy.” On the way out, he asked if he could come back with me every time I went. When I answered that of course he could, his reply, edged with thrill most people reserve for moments when they win the lottery, was, “COOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLL!”